


(May Nothing But) Death Do Us Part

by RedTeamShark



Series: American Beauty/American Psycho [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (I mean they come back in Endgame but in this fic... not so much), Alpha!Rumlow, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Beta!Sam, Domestic Fluff, Hallucinations, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Pain Killers, Panic Attacks, Scars, The Raft Prison (Marvel), Wakanda, injuries, major character deaths, omega!Clint, self medication, the snap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23431309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: He’s already heard every worst case scenario just in that one syllable.Sam is dead, he hears her say.I’ve been killed, the irrational part of his mind fills in.This is all your fault, his self-loathing pipes up helpfully.Why weren’t you there?That’s the guilt complex, joining the party.The black hole opens under him and Clint lets it swallow him, speaking through numb lips. “Who?”“We captured Rumlow. Alive.”He’s falling into the void and his feet never hit the ground.--It's not supposed to end like this. It was never supposed to begin like this. How can Clint even let himself consider going back to Brock when he has Sam? How can he turn his back on his bonded mate for the Alpha that he lost?How can he be expected to choose between two men he loves with equal ferocity?(My fight against the canon events of Civil War is a bigger battle than the airport and Wakanda's stand against Thanos combined, y'all.)
Relationships: Clint Barton/Brock Rumlow, Clint Barton/Sam Wilson, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: American Beauty/American Psycho [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1461979
Comments: 45
Kudos: 53





	1. I Can't Get You (Outta My Head)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look the one story in part 3 that's actually fully complete. My original plan was to alternate chapters of this with "(Promises Are Made) If You Just Hold On" and "They Might Be Your Wounds (But They're My Sutures)" but that seems... unlikely for the other two.
> 
> So enjoy some Clint and Brock content.

He pushes himself up, arms trembling, weight more on the wall than his own two feet. With a grunt of effort, he pushes away from it, taking one trembling step forward, then another. For a moment he overbalances, pitches forward, then sideways, then lands flat on his diapered bottom, brown eyes comically wide. Clint grins and Natey grins back at him.

His phone camera flashes with _Memory Full_ when he tries to save the video of his son's first steps, and Clint curses under his breath.

"We'll try again later, little dude, Sam won't know they weren't your _real_ first steps." Not that Natey's listening, already crawled off to get his octopus and begin chewing on it. Clint drops onto the couch, flipping through his pictures and videos, looking for what he can delete. The largest file is also one of the oldest, and his finger hovers over the Trash icon. It's been years, the farmhouse looks nothing like the ramshackle mess Brock toured for him, but...

 _“If you don’t buy this shit hole,_ I’m _tempted to, Barton.”_

Brock's voice, Brock's smile. The same look his sees on their son's face, when he's especially proud of himself. There's too much of his Alpha in Natey for him to ever forget, he knows that. Sam loves the kid like his own, and Clint loves Sam, but sometimes--times like these, times when he's left home while Sam goes on 'one last job' for the Avengers... Yeah, those times the ache in his chest for Brock, for his Alpha, is a lot sharper.

So he orders an SD card for his phone over the internet and resolves to at least relocate some of his larger files. Then he takes Natey outside with him and starts in on the garden. The fall squashes are all growing nicely.

"I can't believe you garden. Didn't see that one coming."

"Seventy-five tied. What are you doing all the way down here when there's a world to save, Pietro?"

The boy takes a seat in the dirt, grinning as Natey immediately crawls into his lap. "Occupying my time with not worrying about my sister."

He can relate. It's nice to have someone to occupy the time he's not worrying about his mate with. And Natey likes Pietro, that much is obvious. If he was a little older, he'd probably see the Avenger as a big brother. They talk while the sun crawls across the sky, about life and the garden and training. Not about the mission. Not about the danger. It's late afternoon, Natey practically asleep in Pietro's arms, the back of Clint's neck aching with sunburn, when they go inside.

“Do you know where they are?” Pietro asks softly, stroking a hand against the back of Natey’s head, his fingers only shaking a little bit in the continued effort to be still. He’s gotten better since Sokovia.

“I can guess. Based on what Sam’s _not_ telling me…” He jerks his head towards the laptop on the corner of the kitchen island. “They’re going after _him_.” The screen is on, an article about a recent robbery of a police station in Lagos, Nigeria. It's not hard to put together.

Mercifully, Pietro keeps that side of the conversation brief. He shifts the almost-asleep baby in his arms, head tilting down into Natey's for a moment. "Show me how to put him to bed, yeah? If I'm going to start babysitting, I need to know how to take care of him."

"You, babysitting? I'll believe it when I see it. I'd sooner trust your sister alone with a kid than you."

"Rude, old man."

* * *

“You’re nineteen, I’m not letting you drink.”

“Old enough to kill someone, old enough to have one beer,” Pietro argues, the pout on his lips doing nothing to make him look more mature. Still, Clint heaves a sigh, pulling out two bottles and opening them.

“Don’t tell your sister.” He considers it for a moment. “Or Stark.”

“What about Rogers?”

That makes Clint laugh, heading out onto the porch and dropping into a chair. “Rogers grew up in Brooklyn during a time when alcohol was literally illegal for everyone, I don’t think his opinions are well-informed.”

It’s been pleasant for the evening, a welcome distraction from the fact that Sam’s on a job. He hasn’t had to think about what that job might entail, how much danger people he cares about might be in. He certainly hasn’t had to think about the outcome of hunting down--

Clint shoves the thought aside, taking a sip as Pietro sits down across from him. “So, how come you’re not globe-trotting with the rest of them?”

“Not allowed to. Hill put me on medical standby until we can find a suppressor that I won’t metabolize immediately.” He shrugs, looking out over the darkening field. “It’s bullshit, if you ask me. You went into the field without suppressors.”

“Yeah, well, I’m also leagues more stubborn than you, believe it or not. And when I was working for S.H.I.E.L.D. and not just avenging independently, I was on suppressors.” Hell, being taken off suppressors was what had started this whole mess. That week down in residential 3 at the Triskelion, kept company by S.T.R.I.K.E. Commander Brock Rumlow… Clint pushes the memories off, taking another drink. “They put me on medical standby for official duties when I wasn’t on suppressors and S.H.I.E.L.D. was still a thing.” Which had ultimately been a lie and a manipulation and he’d gone and gotten himself unauthorized suppressors from Tony, then _still_ managed to get knocked up. 

Clint Barton, human disaster, strikes again.

Pietro smiles a little, twirling his beer bottle between his hands. “Hill said as much. She said that arguing with me wasn’t half as fun as arguing with you.” He considers it for a moment, lifting the bottle to his lips but, as far as Clint can tell, not actually taking a drink. “She’s a scary woman.”

“She’s confident. Natasha’s scary.” He’d almost asked Nat about the job when she’d called Sam in. Almost gone behind his bondmate’s back for information. Trust was supposed to be part of the bond. Trust and love and caring and--

He draws his knees up, taking another long drink. “So how’s everyone else?”

Pietro watches him for another moment, giving up and setting his beer aside, sitting forward. Clint lets the boy’s voice wash over him, updates about the world he’s left behind and the people in it. He likes being retired. He likes being at home, seeing his baby every day. He especially likes knowing that he’s not putting his family in danger.

He just wishes it didn’t feel like he’d been completely cut off from that life and everyone in it.

* * *

Not for the first time in his life, Clint watches helplessly on TV as someone he loves is lambasted by the media. Several people, in fact, torn to shreds for doing their jobs.

It's an easy story to put together, even if it's not easy to hear. Mercenaries ( _Brock_ , he thinks with helpless worry) had attacked a chemical lab in Lagos, Nigeria. They'd killed security and scientists at the vaccine research center, stolen a biological weapon, and disappeared into a nearby marketplace, all while pursued by the Avengers. Almost routine, until the group had turned the hunt for their weapon into a shell game.

Still not an impossible feat for the team out there, but apparently they hadn’t accounted for the suicide vests that the mercenaries were wearing. Two of the four had been disarmed by Natasha and Sam. Brock Rumlow himself had gone up against Steve, thrown punches on an almost even playing field. It was the fourth, a man named Daniels, that had caused the trouble.

Clint sets his hand on Pietro’s shoulder, turning the TV off and squeezing gently. “You should call her, I’m sure they’re back.” He’d broken down and gotten some ‘real civilization’ (Tony’s words) out at the farm a few months ago… Not too long after Brock had broken in. It didn’t hurt to have a safety net with a baby around.

“Would you mind if…” Pietro rocks on the balls of his feet, looking away. “If she came to visit?”

“Of course not.” The quiet would do good. The distance from everything. It certainly helped him when he needed it.

And Wanda is going to need it. He doesn’t have to watch much of the news to know that they blame her, not just the media but everyone. There are calls from all sides for more stringent regulations on enhanced individuals, and Tony’s team of lawyers can only work damage control so quickly. The footage of what happened in Lagos has already made international headlines.

Sam and Natasha had disabled the vests on their targets. Steve had been facing off with Brock. Wanda had been alone, inexperienced in the field, reacted in panic rather than planning. When the man’s vest had gone off, she’d used her powers to fling him upwards, lost her hold and sent him into a building. Innocent people had died.

The confusion had also allowed the leader of the mercenaries to escape, as Steve abandoned his fight to run and help. At least Natasha had retrieved the bioweapon.

Clint heads into the kitchen as Pietro picks up the phone, wanting to grant him at least some privacy. He’s not expecting his own cell phone to start ringing, the familiar notes of Natasha’s ringtone.

“Barton.”

“Clint,” her voice is tight and he hears so much in just how she says his name that he sits down. Whatever words she says next almost won’t matter, because he’s already heard every worst case scenario just in that one syllable.

 _Sam is dead_ , he hears her say.

 _I’ve been killed_ , the irrational part of his mind fills in.

 _This is all your fault,_ his self-loathing pipes up helpfully.

 _Why weren’t you there?_ That’s the guilt complex, joining the party.

The black hole opens under him and Clint lets it swallow him, speaking through numb lips. “Who?”

“We captured Rumlow. Alive.”

He’s falling into the void and his feet never hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made some big changes to the beginning of this chapter, mostly because i realized at midnight the day after posting that the timeline didn't actually work with Natey's first birthday.


	2. (Bury Me) 'Til I Confess

It’s not the first prison cell he’s been in, but it’s probably the nicest.

Put _that_ article on one of those list websites. _Top Ten Bougiest Prisons_. Rumlow snorts to himself, rolling to his feet and exploring the cell inch by inch.

Single occupancy, a toilet in the corner with a metal half-wall blocking its view from the pane of thick glass that makes up the front of the cell. The other three walls are cinderblock, no windows. There’s a sink on the other side of the half-wall from the toilet and on the opposite side is the bed he’s currently standing next to. He’s pretty sure the mattress is fucking memory foam.

He steps up to the glass wall and slams a hand against it. “ _Hey_!” His throat feels like it’s coated in broken glass, but that’s nothing new. That’s been status quo since he woke up after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D.

“ _Please don’t hit the glass,_ ” a voice, female, Irish, speaks up and he looks around for its owner. “ _My name is F.R.I.D.A.Y., the AI system created by Tony Stark and employed by the Avengers to run the complex you’re currently being housed in._ ”

“What happened to the other guy?”

He swears the AI hesitates to answer him. “ _Complications._ ” Rumlow takes a step back, dropping onto the thin but comfortable mattress again. “ _Captain Rogers has been informed that you’re awake and will be in to speak with you shortly. I’ve been authorized to deploy stun current to the glass and floor should you behave aggressively, Agent Rumlow._ ”

“I’m not an agent anymore. I freelance now.”

“ _I’ll update my parameters accordingly, Mr. Rumlow._ ”

Nothing else to do but wait. He tastes blood deep in his throat from all the talking, definitely not helped by starting with a shout. Rumlow considers getting some water, but even bougie prisons don’t provide cups and like hell he’s drinking straight from the tap like a little kid.

The waiting game for Rogers feels intentional, something to put him on edge. Except he’s been waiting to be dead since the Triskelion fell on his face; since he woke up in the hospital with an armed security detail; since he found his way home again and--

Rumlow shoves those thoughts aside and turns his assessment inward. Surprisingly, he’s still dressed in the undersuit of tactical gear he’d been wearing under his body armor. The armor itself is gone, of course, as are his weapons, but he’s not in prison pajamas. The only non-lethal, non-armored item they’ve taken from him is his combat boots--which, fair point, can be lethal with proper application of force. He’s a catalogue of scars and injuries, some of them still painful, others more tolerable. It’s almost impossible to find new aches and pains among the beat of the familiar ones, but he doesn’t _think_ they took him down with a beating. In fact he’s almost positive they didn’t. The memories of the Lagos job are blurry, but he recalls punching Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, in the kidney with his hydraulic boosted gauntlet. The sort of twisted satisfaction in getting the man with his guard down. They’d snuck those gauntlets back from Bern right under Cap’s nose, and Rumlow had had his eye on them ever since. 

The rest of the Lagos team was as good as dead, if not actually dead. They’d suited up to steal the bioweapon or die trying, to take as many people with them as possible if things went south. Their buyer was willing to pay triple to anyone who made it back alive with the target and painkillers weren’t exactly cheap. Rumlow knew he could pull it off alone, had purposely dudded out his vest.

That’s all the reminiscing he has time for, however, footsteps in the hall drawing his attention. Rogers walks up to the glass, standing just on the other side of it and cocking an eyebrow. No Captain America get-up today, just jeans and a t-shirt, a leather jacket slung over one shoulder. “Thought I was going to get to go home before you woke up. So.” He reaches past Rumlow’s line of sight, pulls over a chair and sets the jacket on the back of it before sitting down. “Who was your buyer for the Lagos job?”

“Seriously? Fuck off, Captain Boyscout.” The earlier talking and yelling is worth it when he gets to bear his teeth at Rogers and see the man wince back from the leaking blood in his mouth. “You didn’t take me alive for an interrogation about the Lagos buyer.”

Rogers considers him for a long moment, before shaking his head. “I didn’t take you alive at all. You’re only here because someone else deserves some answers from you.”

His stomach drops, his face twisting into more of a sneer. “Don’t you _dare_ bring him into this--”

The second set of footsteps silence his words and Rumlow grits his teeth together so hard he feels his jaw pop. The figure that steps into his field of view is straight-backed, frowning at him, with a gaze that’s deeply imploring.

“You gave me a choice,” the Winter Soldier says softly, gaze flicking from Rumlow to Rogers before settling back. “I want to know why.”

Rumlow considers the words, the presence before him (person?), the outcomes that might spiral from this. After a moment, he spits a mouthful of blood at the glass, then turns on the bed to face away from them.

The chair scrapes, low murmured voices fading away under footsteps. And after another minute, he’s alone.

* * *

He must sleep, or something close to it. Time has to pass somehow, and despite the pain and the lack of good painkillers, he must get some sleep eventually.

Rumlow believes this mostly because the last time he closed his eyes, he was facing the wall. He opens them to the hallway, to Romanoff perched on a chair in a slinky party dress, a pair of heels on the floor in front of her. It’s not the same chair as Rogers had, he notes, an odd point of focus before the rest of it becomes more important.

He doesn’t feign sleep to observe her, doubts that it would work even if she seems more focused on her nails than on him. Instead he sits up, groaning and scrubbing a rough hand against his rougher face. He feels her eyes track him as he crosses the cell, disappears behind the half-wall to take care of business. He comes around and washes his hands, fighting down the urge to cup them and drink.

“We’re not withholding necessities from you, you know.”

He doesn’t jump at her words, but it’s a damn near thing. A redhead in a party dress shouldn’t be able to fade into the background of his prison cell, but this _is_ the Black Widow he’s dealing with. Rumlow looks around, spotting the tray near the end of his bed. Food, water, and a small cup with a pill in it. He dry-swallows the tablet, shuddering at the bitter taste. “So, what is it?”

“Oxycodone. We did a blood test while you were out, tried to match your current dosage. Though you should know that medical plans to get you off the narcotics.” She slips the nail file away as he sits down and eats, her eyes steady on him. “How bad is it?”

Rumlow gestures at his ruined face, not wasting his breath on a verbal answer. He digs into his meal with gusto, however, only sparing a moment of narrowed suspicion at the food. He doubts it’s poisoned, they wouldn’t take him alive just to poison him, but it _is_ strange that all of his favorites are present. Hell, there’s even a little plastic cup of chocolate pudding for dessert, the cheap, shitty kind that comes in TV dinners. He’s loved that garbage since he was a kid.

Romanoff lets him eat most of it before she speaks up again, her voice steady, offering neither comfort nor judgement. “I thought you were done with Hydra, Rumlow.”

His fork rattles against his plate at the word and he has to swallow twice past the broken glass in his throat before he can speak. “I am.” Even if they tried to get him back. Even if they tried to kill him. He’s done with it.

“Then who are you fighting for now?”

“Whoever offers the biggest paycheck. Black market painkillers aren’t cheap.” Like hell he’s going to heroin.

She sighs, standing up and picking up her heels, her footsteps utterly silent on the concrete floor of the hallway. “You’re a father, you know--”

He hurls the remains of the tray of food at the glass.

Electricity crackles up his legs, little more than a tingle, but he pulls them off the floor anyways, even as Romanoff snaps for the AI to stop. Rumlow meets her gaze steadily through streaks of gravy and pudding on the glass between them, waiting to see who will crack first.

He’s genuinely surprised that it’s her, that she looks away from him and to the floor. “I told Clint that we had you. I don’t know if he’s going to come here.”

There are so many questions he wants to ask her: about Barton, about his son, about the time between then and now and how could everything have been turned so wrong. Instead he continues to glare until she leaves the hallway. Then he goes to fetch the spilled cup of water, refilling it from the sink and drinking slowly.

They’re not withholding necessities, so he’ll get more oxy soon. As long as they want him alive, it’s more reliable than black market dealers. And just in case it isn’t, he’ll do what he can to ration the pills. He’s made it longer with less before.

* * *

By his count, it’s been two days with no one coming down to see him. He’s woken up to food at the foot of his bed six times and pills four times. He has one extra pill now, thanks to stretching out the dosage timing as long as possible in between, but it’s not going to last until his next dose arrives, he knows it. Rumlow looks forlornly at the little white pill, twisting it between his thumb and index finger. He hurts. He hurts everywhere. There isn’t another dose coming until his next meal, and he just finished a meal. It’s an easy schedule to figure out, even if the exact times aren’t.

Six a.m. he gets breakfast and a pill. Noon, he gets lunch. Six p.m. he gets dinner and a pill. He has five hours until his next pill. Five and a half, really, he ate lunch quickly. Rumlow turns the pill in his fingers, sighing.

“ _Mr. Rumlow, if I may offer some advice?_ ” The first voice he’s heard in days makes him jump, fumble the pill and almost drop it. He looks around, already aware that he won’t see anyone. It’s the A.I.

“Yeah, sure.”

“ _Hoarding medication will only increase the risk of overdose. One pill every twelve hours is sufficient for pain management, and you may rest assured that we will not withhold medically required pain suppressants._ ”

It sounds so damn reasonable, coming from a machine that can’t feel pain. He huffs, defiantly shoving the pill into his mouth and swallowing it. “Fuck you.”

“ _I’ve made a note of your most recent self-dosage and will have your next dose delayed accordingly, Mr. Rumlow._ ” The computer sounds goddamn _snide_ about it. Rumlow grits his teeth, lying down on the bed and staring at the ceiling. They’re trying to sweat him out, make him paranoid that he’ll be forgotten down here in his cell. Waiting for him to crack from the isolation.

This is kid’s stuff, though, compared to S.H.I.E.L.D. torture training. And it’s a goddamned vacation compared to what he went through for Hydra. Regular food, regular sleep, no actual acts of torture. He can’t actually picture Captain America holding him down and waterboarding him, but he knows how to handle himself if it _does_ happen.

It wouldn’t be Rogers that came down and started the torture, of course. Rumlow settles back on the bed, letting the pleasant numbness of slow-release narcotics occupy the time between lunch and dinner. Maybe they’d send Romanoff to start in on him… She’d at least know what she was doing. Hydra never got their fingers into the Black Widow program, but S.H.I.E.L.D. had Romanoff defect from it and she’d been convinced to share some secrets eventually. He has a feeling she still held back, is still holding back just how much of a monster the Soviets made her.

Thinking of Soviet monsters inevitably trails his mind to the Winter Soldier, that tried-and-true masterpiece of Soviet programming. It doesn’t take mental gymnastics to figure out what the asset is asking about, he recalls most of the events of the day S.H.I.E.L.D. went down with horrifying clarity and little effort. Rumlow had given the order not to kill Captain America. Pierce’s previous order had contradicted that. The confusion, the conflicting orders, should have been solved with simple application of chain of command. Pierce outranked Rumlow in the Soldier’s programming, therefore it would listen to Pierce’s orders and not Rumlow’s if there was a conflict.

Except he’d told it to make a choice, and it had chosen him.

The _why_ is easy, he had his own set of secondary orders to follow. His own choice of who to listen to. Obviously he couldn’t just order the asset to go upstairs and rip Pierce’s spine out of his asshole. Hydra had its fingers in too deep, it needed to be taken down in a way that completely scattered the pieces. Cutting off a single head would never be enough. 

Rumlow hums to himself, rolling onto his stomach and pressing his face into the mattress, his breathing going shallow and easy. He needs a shower, even in the climate controlled conditions of the cell, he’s starting to stink like old sweat. A shower, some clean clothes, and possibly a mirror and razor for a shave. If the Avengers aren’t withholding necessities, he should get that soon.

Nothing to do now but wait.


	3. I Can Move Mountains (I Can Work A Miracle)

The waiting is going to kill him.

They won’t even let him look at the video feeds, prompting Clint to put his hacking abilities to the ultimate test. F.R.I.D.A.Y. shuts that shit down in about half a second, just barely a flicker of an image on his computer before it’s replaced by the image of a cartoon Tony Stark, frowning sternly and shaking his finger in a ‘no, no, no’ gesture.

Clint groans and shuts his laptop. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., you’re a cruel mistress.”

“ _Just doing my job._ ”

Natasha had called him three days ago to let him know that they’d captured Brock alive. He hadn’t wanted to come back, to care, but… Pietro and Wanda had each other at the farm. Sam was staying at Avengers headquarters until they could find the Lagos buyer. Most everyone was busy dealing with the aftermath of the explosion.

He’d been told, very specifically, not to go to New York. Told that there wasn’t anything for him to do, that they were following a very specific game plan that didn’t involve putting him in front of Brock.

Which, fine, he understood, but he could at least _look_ at the man. On a camera, from his own room, without interacting.

Clint scrubs a hand against his face, leaning back in the chair and kicking his feet up on the desk. He should be used to inaction, he’s been officially retired for nearly six months now and has spent almost a year before that barely working. And when he’s at the farm, the slow pace and long days suit him just fine, but here… Here he feels like he has to be doing something, like inaction is wasted opportunity.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” he declares, getting up and abandoning his room. He misses the days when Tony didn’t have an AI ever-present at headquarters. Hell, come to think of it, he misses the days when _Tony_ was present at headquarters. Maybe he should go down to the city, see if the man wants to spend an afternoon causing a ruckus together.

These thoughts in mind, Clint makes his way towards the elevator.

F.R.I.D.A.Y. stops him before he even presses a button. “ _You don’t have authorization for anything below level three._ ”

“Parking garage is level two, isn’t it?”

The doors close, the elevator sliding smoothly downwards. “ _I wasn’t aware you’d obtained licensing for a vehicle, Agent Barton._ ”

Clint steps out with a grin, digging his hands into his pockets as he walks. “I’ve had a lot of free time.” 

The parking garage on level two is one of the few parts of the building that doesn’t fit the clean white aesthetic of the rest. It’s older, concrete and cinderblock, underground with no wide windows and views of the surrounding fields and trees. It’s also, as far as Clint is aware, one of the few places that F.R.I.D.A.Y. can’t reach every corner of.

He heads to the far back, pulling a small keyring from his pocket and twirling it, just a man going for his car. “Hey F.R.I.D.A.Y., can you give me a status update on those proposed constraints the government wants to level against enhanced individuals?”

“ _Certainly, Agent Barton._ ” And she’s off, her clipped artificial voice interlaced with news reporters and clips from press conferences. Clint half-listens, his steps measured. When her voice begins to grow quieter, he starts searching the floor in front of him.

“-- _General Ross also says--Agent Barton?_ ” There’s a small whirring noise and Clint glances over his shoulder, sees a security camera in the ceiling beginning to make a sweep. He ducks behind a car, counts seconds and continues on in a low crouch. F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice calls after him, further and further away.

Down in the floor, he finds a drainage grate. It doesn’t take much to twist the bolts off. Clint pulls the grate aside and looks at the narrow opening, mentally measuring it. He’d better have worked off all his pregnancy weight gain, or he’s going to get stuck and who knows how long until someone finds him.

He hops down into the drain tunnel and starts looking for an exit.

* * *

It takes some doing and more than a few backtracks when he either hits a dead end or a space that’s too small for him to fit through, but Clint makes his way down below the Avengers compound, deeper and deeper underground. He doesn’t actually know where he’s going, which certainly adds to the problems, and despite jokes from Tony and memes he’s seen online, crawling around in ventilation shafts isn’t really his forte. 

He swings down from a ceiling vent and hits solid concrete, cursing under his breath as a smooth, Irish voice speaks up.

“ _Agent Barton, there you are. Would you like me to continue the status update?_ ”

Computers shouldn’t be able to be sarcastic. He holds up his hands in surrender, shaking his head. “No thanks, F.R.I.D.A.Y., that was just to distract you.”

“ _I gathered._ ”

“So, where am I?”

Computers also shouldn’t be able to sigh, but there she goes. “ _Detention Level One, seventh level underground. A place you do not have authorization to be._ ”

“You gonna tattle on me?”

“ _Yes. Agent Romanoff has already been informed…_ ” The AI gives a sigh again. “ _And has elected to dismiss the notice. Seems you have free reign, Agent Barton._ ”

Bless Natasha for letting him be stupid when he needs to. Clint gives a smile, starting to make his way down the cinderblock halls. “Don’t feel bad, F.R.I.D.A.Y., I can sneak away from the best of them.”

“ _Your profile has been updated to include ‘sneaking proficiency.’ It’s even been phrased as such._ ”

The cells he passes are empty, blocked off from the wide hallway by thick glass with a series of holes near the top and bottom for airflow. There’s a bed in each one, a visible sink, and a half-wall that he guesses hides a toilet. Otherwise they’re completely nondescript.

“So, where’re you keeping him?”

“ _I remind you, Agent Barton, that this is not advised. Second hallway, third cell on the left._ ”

Clint slows down as he reaches the corridor, his steps measured, his heart pounding. The second cell has no glass separating it from the corridor, no bed or sink or half-wall within, just a couple of chairs. He shakes his head, carefully stepping into the line of sight of the third cell on the left.

It’s Brock, he knows it even before he sees the man’s face. He knows that body, that posture. Brock’s laid out on the bed, one arm draped over his face, his socked feet dangling off the edge of the mattress. Clint puts a hand to the glass, swallowing thickly and trying not to get overwhelmed by the rush of emotions.

“Brock…”

He jolts up, drops his arm and hisses a curse. “Great, I’m hallucinating. Is that the withdrawal, or an overdose?” His voice sounds like he’s been gargling glass, like every word hurts. He’s a wreck of burn scars and other poorly healed injuries, his skin twisted and misshapen especially on the left side of his face, pulling his mouth into a permanent sneering grin.

“Brock, it’s me. For real.”

“Yeah, a hallucination would say that.” Still, he steps up, moving to the glass slowly and pressing his fingers to it where Clint’s hand touches. “Romanoff or Rogers?”

Clint furrows his eyebrows for a moment, before understanding dawns on him. He presses his forehead to the glass, meeting Brock’s eyes and watching him carefully. “You saw yourself coming home to me, the first time you saw the farmhouse. That was it, wasn’t it? That was the moment that you realized there was something more important in your life than Hydra.”

His eyes meet Clint’s before flicking away, his breathing slow and uneven. “Stop.”

“I didn’t stop loving you. No matter what terrible things you’d done--fuck, I’ve done worse. Some of them not even for something that I believed in at the time.”

Brock’s fist hits the glass. “ _Stop_.”

Clint watches him closely, watches the emotion that works across his ruined face. It’s harder to read, now, but just as strong as it’s ever been. He stays close to the glass, stays quiet, until Brock moves back to lean against it again.

“I’m not worth holdin’ onto, Clint.”

“There’s nothing you can do that will make me stop caring. Don’t even bother.”

Brock sighs, pressing his forehead against the glass, eyes even with Clint’s. “You’re really real? Really here?”

He nods shortly. “I am. No hallucinations, no tricks, no ulterior motives. I just came to see you.” He leans in, presses his forehead to the glass across from Brock. “Had to goddamn sneak down here to do it, too.”

That gets a snort of laughter, brief but genuine. “Idiot, I’m not worth the trouble.”

“Mmm… that’s where we disagree. You’re worth it. Thought I already convinced you of that.” He sighs, his breath fogging the glass briefly. This won’t do. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.? If Brock steps back, you can open the cell so I can go in, right?”

“ _I absolutely cannot open the cell without a direct order from someone authorized to give such an order. Those authorized include Agent Romanoff, Captain Rogers, Mr. Stark, and Agent Barton._ ”

Clint meets Brock’s eye, nodding him back slightly. He steps away, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., open the cell.”

“ _I want my objections on record._ ” The glass slides smoothly open, the panel moving to the side so that Clint can step in. He leans back against it once it closes, waiting for Brock to come to him. They need to be careful about this, need to take their time with each other, even if all he wants to do is run to the Alpha’s arms ( _his Alpha_ , his mind whispers) and be held.

Brock stares at him after he crosses that threshold, his throat working, the muscles of his jaw twitching and jumping. Clint holds as still as possible, assessing, waiting…

Slowly, hesitantly, Brock steps up to him, raises a hand and touches the side of his face lightly. “Please be real,” he whispers, so low Clint’s not entirely sure he actually spoke, it may have just been words he read on the other man’s lips. He leans into the touch a little, presses his reality a little more firmly into Brock’s skin.

They hadn’t touched, that night in the farmhouse. Everything about Brock’s sudden return had quickly fallen into a dreamlike quality, or maybe that of a nightmare. If it wasn’t for Sam assuring him of the physical evidence that someone had been in the room, Clint would have thought it _was_ a terrible dream. They’re touching now, Brock’s hand on Clint’s cheek, slowly stroking against his skin, and it rushes through him like fire, like ice. Clint’s hand shakes as he reaches up to put it over Brock’s, their fingers slowly lacing together.

The quiet holds, their eyes staying on each other as the hand on his cheek moves slowly up and down. Finally, Brock’s mouth twists into a frown. “How is he? Our son, is he…” He glances up at the ceiling.

“Natey. Nathaniel, really. He’s good. Just... just took his first steps. I left him home, with a couple of babysitters, a couple of Avengers.”

“Good, I… I’m glad.” Brock leans in, drops his forehead to rest on Clint’s. “I wanted to be there for you. Both of you.”

“I know. I’ve known since… since that first night. Natasha told me what you were trying to do.” Clint swallows, his hand squeezing Brock’s gently. “I called your mom. Made sure she knew you weren’t what the media said you were.”

For a second, Brock’s eyes go steely. “Just because I flipped at the end doesn’t mean I wasn’t--”

“Shut up.” Their lips meet, brief and rough, but it stops the tirade of self-doubt in its tracks. “It’s in the past, leave it there.”

He doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that. After a moment, Brock looks towards the bed, raising an eyebrow. “More comfortable than my couch.”

“About the same size, though.” Clint lets himself be led, lets himself settle in close. They’re a tight squeeze, side by side on a single bed, but the closeness is a welcome feeling. The arms that slip around him are welcome, too.

“Talking too much hurts,” Brock rasps, and yeah, Clint can guess that much. His voice has been getting quieter and rougher with every sentence. “Tell me what this last year has been for you. I wanna know everything.”

Clint talks, and talks, and talks, enough for both of them. Everything from their last conversation until this morning, as well as he can remember it. His own voice is rough by the time he’s done, but next to him Brock is smiling and breathing steadily, one hand stroking gently along the back of his neck. 

It’s like being home again.


	4. (Tomorrow's Dreams) They're Not Quite What They Seem

For once, he’s awake when the food arrives. Romanoff stops in front of the cell with a tray, letting out a heaving sigh. “I should punch you in the dick.”

“You knew I was down here.” Barton raises one arm, his middle finger up, his face still buried in Rumlow’s shoulder.

“This wasn’t part of the plan, you know. F.R.I.D.A.Y., go ahead and open up.” The door slides smoothly aside and she steps in, setting the tray of dinner carefully on the end of the bed. “We were very purposely _not_ planning to dangle his dumb ass in front of you like some reward for good behavior.”

“To be fair, it wouldn’t have worked.” Rumlow scoots himself to sit up, reaching over and taking the little cup with the pill in it. He’s been hurting for the last two hours or so, pain steadily ramping up as he laid there next to Barton. The man isn’t a miracle cure, after all.

“Well, the bad news for you is that Steve’s back in town and he’s not exactly in a ‘listen to reason’ mood. They’re leveling sanctions against Wanda for what happened in Lagos, and he’s really thinking about throwing you to the wolves as the sole blame for it.” Romanoff leans back against the glass, crossing her arms and looking aside. “I don’t blame him, I just don’t know if he’s thinking it through properly.”

“Send me to prison while his pet Winter Soldier gets to walk free after seventy years of killing? He knows he’s a hypocrite, right?” Rumlow eats slowly, nudging Barton and offering some of the meal to him.

“Oh, it’s his second-favorite h-word lately, right after ‘Rumlow’s Hydra.’ He’s like a broken record.”

Barton sits up, swinging his feet off the edge of the bed and standing, stretching his arms over his head. “God dammit. I thought he got over that when Natey was born.” He squints at her, his mouth twisting into a frown. “You agree with him, don’t you?”

Romanoff shrugs, looking to the side. “We need to be put in check, otherwise we’re no better than the scumbags we’re trying to stop. I’m not saying we make an example of Rumlow, but who would you rather see crucified, him or Wanda?”

If it’s prison, he can take it. If it’s execution, well, he’s been living on borrowed time anyways. Rumlow sets his hand against Barton’s back, rubbing lightly. “I’m the much more appealing target. Doesn’t matter that I flipped, they’ll still see me as the Hydra agent, still see my mercenary work as continuing the legacy. Besides, nobody is gonna paint a guy who calls himself Crossbones in a sympathetic light.”

His chest aches a little at the stubborn set of Barton’s jaw, at the burn of refusal in his eyes. He leans in, settling his weight against Rumlow’s side. “There’s gotta be another option.”

“This is the other option. If we hand them Rumlow on a silver platter, they’ll back off Wanda. They’re looking for someone to put the blame on, and until they have the ringleader of the attack, it’s a kid who was just trying her best to help.” Romanoff taps lightly on the glass, stepping out as it opens. “Sorry, Clint, but I wanted to tell you how it was going to play before Steve came down here and did a worse job of it.”

She’s gone in a flip of red hair and Rumlow sighs, putting his tray aside. He wraps his arms around Barton, holding him close for a moment. “It’s fine. I deserve it. And don’t tell me otherwise.”

The Omega sighs against him, shaking his head. “Just shut up. We’ll figure something out. But…” He pulls back, looking him up and down slowly. “Crossbones? Seriously?”

“Shut your fucking mouth, _Hawkeye_.”

“Hey at least my stupid nickname makes sense!” Barton shoves him back to lie down, head dropping onto his chest. “I see everything that happens on the battlefield. Explain yours.”

Rumlow swallows, his fingers trailing down Barton’s spine. It’s easy enough to explain, but… “You remember that skull tattoo I had?”

“Yeah.”

“Never told you what it meant. Was a S.T.R.I.K.E. thing, but more… was a Hydra thing.” He closes his eyes, sighing. “Yeah, shut up, we all got matching tattoos declaring us… _that_. Well, when S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, when I was… was burning up… Some of my gear melted into my skin. Made a new tattoo, crossed out over the old one. I crossed out that part of my life, so…”

Barton snorts, shaking his head against Rumlow’s chest. “You’re a nerd.”

“Shut up.”

“Nerd,” he whispers again, pressing a kiss against Rumlow’s sternum. 

His chest hitches, eyes squeezing shut. “We shouldn’t… You’re bonded to Wilson. We shouldn’t even be…”

“Shh… Just for now, Brock. For a little bit longer, let’s… let’s go back to how it was. How it should be. Worry about the rest of it later.”

That’s the stupidest idea ever, but it’s also the most appealing he’s heard all day. Rumlow secures his arms around Barton, hesitating for just a moment before rubbing the back of his neck. His pain pills should start working soon, the oxy taking him away to somewhere pleasant. After that, the rest won’t matter.

* * *

Barton’s gone when he wakes up, but that isn’t terribly surprising. He’s not entirely sure that Barton’s presence _wasn’t_ a drug induced hallucination.

When Rumlow opens his eyes, however, he’s a little less sure of where reality ends and dream begins.

Jack Rollins stands at the end of his bed, full S.T.R.I.K.E. uniform on, arms crossed. Rumlow groans softly, shaking his head.

Rollins’ body was never found at the Triskelion ruins. He was up top, controlling the World Security Council at Pierce’s orders. Rumlow’s spent over a year being quietly grateful that he didn’t have to face off against Rollins up there. Not out of anything like fear, not even close. He’d been willing to turn his back on his entire life, but he’s still not sure he could actually put a bullet between Rollins’ eyes.

Maybe he should have been ready for it.

“You a dream, Jack?” Rumlow asks hoarsely, sitting up and swinging his feet over the edge of the bed.

“Might be. You look like shit.”

He pushes himself to his feet, crossing to the toilet without a second thought. Rollins is probably a dream and the oxy makes him thirsty, which makes him have to piss. “Thanks, asshole. So are you the Ghost of Christmas Past? Here to show me how fucked up my life was before?”

Rollins snorts, leaning back against the glass. “When have I ever helped you sort out your shitty life?”

Rumlow nods, washing his hands and looking around the cell. No food. The lights in the hall are dimmed, it must be late. “Breaking me out of prison?”

“Maybe I am.”

That gives him actual pause, eyes narrowing. “On whose orders, Rollins?”

There’s a body over him, hot breath against his rough skin. “You know the answer to that. Sir.”

His breath freezes in his throat, jagged like a shard of ice. “No. That’s not who I am anymore. I gave it up a long time ago.”

Rollins is closer than before, no space left between them. Rumlow can feel lips ghost against the melted lump of his left ear. “Hail Hydra.”

He jolts awake, arms flailing, eyes wide and unseeing. Someone grabs his arm and Rumlow acts without thought, throws the assailant off of him. His back hits the wall and he reaches for his sidearm, groping blindly at his waistband when he can’t find it.

“Brock. Brock, calm down. Breathe.”

He blinks once and sees Rollins in front of him, mouth curving into those words again. Another blink and it’s Barton, his hands up and apart, his face twisted with concern.

“Which of you is real?” Every other blink it changes, which reality he’s in. His nails dig into his arm and it’s the same dull throb in both versions. There’s nothing physical to differentiate them.

“Brock…”

“Rumlow.”

He shakes his head, his hands scrubbing through his hair. “Fucking… _fuck_!” Maybe they’re both dreams. If he only has to pick one, he wants Barton, but if that’s a dream it might just kill him. If Rollins is reality… His throat lurches, nausea rocking through him.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., give me a vitals rundown.”

A smooth voice comes from nowhere (everywhere?) with a rundown of his vitals. He’s not a medic, but he knows enough to recognize the symptoms of a panic attack. Burke used to get them, before Rumlow shot him in the head. He remembers talking Burke through a few such panics. He forces himself to inhale for a solid six count, hold it for five, and exhale for another six. It’s probably not the right rhythm, but the focus on it takes away the pressure to figure out where he really is. Rumlow blinks and realizes he’s at the toilet, his stomach still clenching with dry heaves between his breathing efforts.

Slowly, carefully, he sits up and looks around. For another moment, Rollins and Barton are both there, before Rollins disappears from view and Barton seems to solidify in place. “Oh, god.”

He stumbles back to the bed, scrubbing a hand against his mouth. He looks to Barton, something cold curling in his stomach. “Tell me something about me that only you know.”

Barton’s throat works, his eyes tracking over Rumlow’s face for a moment. “The scar on the inside of your left thigh looks like a bullet graze, so you let people think that, but really you tripped over the couch with no pants on when you were fifteen.”

 _That_ settles it into reality. There’s no one else in the world he’d tell about the naked, hormone-fueled antics of his teenage years. He nods slowly, breathing through a few more long holds before reaching out, touching Barton’s hand. “Did I hurt you?”

“I’m an Avenger, Brock.” Barton laughs softly, slowly sitting down beside him. “You gave me a hell of a crack in the ribs.”

“Sorry, I--” He pulls his hand back, rubbing his face and sighing. “I thought Rollins was here. I thought I was--was back to before.” Before. A chunk of his life that still shows up in his nightmares. Things he never wants to talk about with anyone. Not even Barton.

And somehow, it seems like the Omega understands that. Barton eases closer, gently lying down again. “C’mon. It’s late. We’ll lie down and stare at the ceiling until morning or something.”

There’s no way he’s falling back asleep, Rumlow tells himself. He’s okay with lying down again, though, as long as Barton stays close.

That thought leads him down the path back to sleep.


	5. The Blood of the Lamb (Is Worth Two Lions)

Clint won’t claim it’s his own will power that keeps him from interrupting the entire time Steve outlines the plan. It’s definitely got more to do with Natasha’s hand on his knee under the table than anything else.

Still, as soon as Steve says “Any input?” his mouth is dry, his throat closing around the words that want to come out.

Thank god for Tony Stark.

“Uh, yeah, _lots_ ,” his voice comes through the computer, as smooth as if he was there in person. “First of all, you’re keeping an international fugitive in my building without alerting the authorities--”

“Rumlow’s secured.”

“I’m not talking about _Rumlow_.” The camera feed changes with a swipe of Tony’s hand, showing the common room. Dimmed but not entirely darkened, and there stands Bucky Barnes, talking to Steve. “You let the Winter Soldier have free reign without telling _anyone_ that he was here?”

“That’s not relevant to--”

“If you want to turn over Rumlow to the authorities--and you should, for what it’s worth--then you’d better turn over Barnes, too.”

The way Steve’s gripping the edge of the table, it’s probably a good thing that Tony isn’t here in person. Clint’s never seen them go at it face to face, but he’s heard horror stories from Natasha. Slowly, steadily, Steve lets out a breath and faces the group again. “You agree with him? I’m not making this decision alone.”

“Barnes’ situation is different,” Sam speaks up immediately, looking around the group of them. “Handing him over to the authorities is basically saying that prisoners of war need to be held responsible for what their captors make them do.”

“You say we need to be put in check, no?” Pietro counters, his fingers tapping rapidly against the table. “That people like me and Wanda need to be watched, controlled. You want to make us prisoners and be our captors. How is it different?”

Wanda makes a noise on her monitor, a little more staticky. She’s still at the house with Natey, though Pietro agreed to come back for this meeting in person. “The why doesn’t matter. I hurt people, I need to be punished for it. I can’t just hide from that.”

Vision opens their eyes, whatever they’d been thinking on apparently decided. “The source of the problem is what should be punished. It’s like gardening, removing weeds at the top does nothing. Evil needs to be taken out from the root. Hydra created the Winter Soldier, gave the Maximoffs their powers, and brought fear to this world. The punishment should be handed down to Hydra, not its victims.” They seem satisfied with that decision, though almost everyone at the table seems ready to jump in and argue with it.

Steve stills them with a raised hand, his gaze suddenly centering on Clint. “Barton…”

Those Captain America eyes are staring him down, imploring him to make the right choice. It’s like the posters and PSAs he remembers from when he was a kid, from the classrooms and hallways of grade school. _Captain America Says Smoking Isn’t Cool_ , _Captain America Says Don’t Be A Bully_ , _Captain America Says Once Hydra Always Hydra_ , _Captain America Says Don’t Love Anyone I Don’t Approve Of_.

“You want to wrap it up in a neat little bow and make it all better. I don’t agree with Wanda being punished for trying to help, but if you’re going to make Brock a human sacrifice, you’d better be ready to do the same for Barnes. He’s certainly killed enough people on and off the record over the years that he should face justice for it. And while Hydra made him the Soldier, there’s no proof he wasn’t acting by choice afterwards.” He shoves away from the table before Natasha or Sam can stop him, out of the meeting room and to his room.

It’s not what he means, he knows better than some of the others that Bucky struggles with what he was made to do by Hydra, but--

But throwing Brock under the bus doesn’t feel right either.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., don’t let anyone in. No messages, either.” It’s childish to take his hearing aids out, but he wants to. He doesn’t want to have to acknowledge any of this until he can think it through properly.

Steve’s being irrational, of course. Dropping Brock in front of a judge won’t make people change their minds about Wanda, it’ll just distract them until the next time something happens. He hates that it’s her, though… She’s a kid and she’s already been vilified by the world more than once.

Clint stretches out on his bed, burying his face in the pillow. Hopefully she’s not out at the farm watching the news and taking in all the awful things they’re saying about her. Hopefully she understands… Who is he kidding, he knows the blame she’s laying on her own shoulders. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t her fault, she still wants to swallow the guilt.

“ _Apologies, Agent Barton, but--_ ” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice cuts off and Clint looks up, frowning as his TV lights up.

“You can’t shut me out of my own system, Barton.” Tony shakes his head, one hand rubbing the back of his neck lightly. “They’re still yelling in the other room, I have a feeling they will be for a while. I already called Wanda, she’s going to pack up her stuff and your baby and come to the tower. I figured you and Natey’s dad might want to come, too.”

“I don’t think Sam--”

“I didn’t mean Sam.” Tony’s face is serious, his hand lifting from the back of his neck for a moment. He turns his back to the camera, showing the bond scars that have faded to almost nothing. “Considering your recently added ‘sneaking proficiency,’ I think you can slip yourself and Rumlow past a supersoldier.”

Running away doesn’t feel right, but getting some space… “He’s still a fugitive, Tony.”

“I’m not saying we give him free reign, but we at least put him somewhere that Steve isn’t calling the shots.” His fingers tap on his desktop, eyes darting around the room. “It’s not just Wanda and Pietro I’m looking out for. You and I are just normal guys, but there’s more enhanced individuals showing up all the time. Some of them aren’t doing anything good, but plenty of them are just trying to help the world. Or their own neighborhood.”

The feed cuts off and Clint looks to the door, nodding to himself. Get Brock and get down to Stark Tower in the city. He can do that. He’s been meaning to visit Tony, anyways, see how he is. Those bond scars, faded to almost nothing… That’s not a good sign for an Omega, even one as independent as Tony Stark.

* * *

Admittedly, it’s not the test of his so-called sneaking proficiency that getting down here the first time had been. Clint slips past the argument in the meeting room, gone quieter now, and F.R.I.D.A.Y. doesn’t stop him from taking the elevator down to Detention Level One. He makes his way to Brock’s cell, mentally counting people.

The rest of the staff are a concern, of course, people like Hill would certainly try to stop him if they knew what he was up to. Bucky is wandering around somewhere, but Clint’s willing to bet he wasn’t left on guard duty for Brock. He doesn’t _think_ Brock would use any sort of programming against the former Hydra Asset, but _Steve_ probably thinks it could happen.

He eases up to the cell, glancing inside and letting out a sigh of relief. “Brock.”

Brock looks up from his lunch, frowning. “They really sent you to bring me to the gallows? Fucking rude.”

“C’mon, we’re getting out of here.”

“I really don’t think Stark’s computer is going to let you aid and abet--” The glass panel slides open and his mouth snaps shut, curving into a frown.

“I’m not taking you to the police, but we’re also not running away. We’re just… relocating. Somewhere that Steve isn’t the one in charge.” He glances over his shoulder, frowning. “Now hurry the hell up.”

Brock’s movements are stiff as he gets up, his steps hesitant. “Don’t suppose you stole my gear, too?”

“Don’t push your luck, I’m not even sure where they’re keeping it. Here.” He’s at least got shoes for the man. Tony will have clean clothes at the tower.

The elevator ride up is tense, his hand itching to hold onto Brock’s, his body coiling, ready for whatever fight when the doors open. They can’t just sneak out of the garage, there’s a security checkpoint before the exit of the compound that would certainly alert Steve and the others. The helipad isn’t usually as closely monitored. He and Tony are about the only ones who use it off-mission.

The elevator doors slide open and Clint leads the way out, his hurried steps stopping dead halfway to his ‘copter. “Natasha.”

She pushes up from her casual lean against the waiting helicopter, taking two steps towards them. Clint spots the stun taser on her wrist, charged up and glowing faintly blue. He moves back a step, putting one hand to the knife at his belt. Still a few steps away, she stops and speaks. “If you run away, Steve’s just going to go after you. I can’t stop him from doing that. I won’t.”

“We’re not running away. We’re just relocating.”

She takes another step closer and he pulls the knife from his belt. “Nat. Don’t make me.”

“You’ll want to put an EMP arrow on the door, triggered when it opens. It’ll buy you just enough time to get in the air. I can’t stop Vision from flying after you, but you should be able to outpace them. Stay low near civilians and Rhodey won’t shoot you down if the government sends him after you.” She closes the distance, looks between them quickly. “Rumlow, shove Barton out of the way. You better be serious about this not working on you anymore.”

Brock’s hands go to his shoulders, shove him aside as Natasha’s fist comes up. The Widow’s Bite discharges into the side of his neck and Clint can hear the crackle of electricity from it, but Brock barely flinches. “It don’t do much,” he grits out between clenched teeth, his head snapping forward to smash his forehead into hers. He shoves her away and Clint grabs his hand, running for the ‘copter. They don’t have that long to get in the air.

There’s a go bag in the back of it, along with his bow and arrowheads. He draws an arrow, turning back and firing just past Natasha as she starts to get up, planting it in the wall next to the door. If the others get up here too soon, it will short out their ride and the doors not opening for a minute won’t matter.

He gets in the air just as the door opens, the helicopter jolting for a moment as the EMP goes off. It doesn’t fully shut down, thank god, but a glance backwards affirms all he needs to know--they won’t be chased.

“So,” Brock adjusts his headset slightly and Clint winces in sympathy. It’s gotta be a bitch to put that kind of pressure on the burn scars. “What’s with the prison break?”

“I’m not the only one who isn’t in favor of throwing you to the wolves. Tony’s pretty pissed that Barnes is here, so he offered a little sanctuary for team ‘Cap’s Being Absurd’ down in the city. You’ll get to meet the twins. And… And Natey’s gonna be there.” Where Wanda goes, Pietro will follow, no questions asked. He only spends time away from his sister when she tells him to. “I should warn you, it’s likely to be domestic as fuck, though. A whole bunch of Omegas cooing over a baby? You’re gonna wish for a prison cell.”

Brock nods slowly, his hand sliding over, starting to touch Clint’s arm before he pulls back. “You don’t have to throw your life away for me. You’ve got what you want--”

“Shut up.”

To his surprise, Brock does, mouth audibly snapping shut.

“Clint.” That’s a new voice, but not an unfamiliar one.

Clint switches over to the appropriate comm channel, forcing a laugh into his voice. “Rhodey, the FAA got you doing their dirty work now?”

“Clint, what are you planning here?”

“Yeah, I know, I forgot to schedule a flight plan before I took off. My bad. How big’s the fine?”

Rhodey sighs over the comms and Clint spots him in his periphery. Fully armored up, but not aiming to shoot them down. Not yet. “Where are you going? I’ll escort you.”

“Think I know how to get there on my own.” He glances to Brock, shrugging. Nothing they can do about it. “I’ve landed enough helicopters at Tony’s tower.”

The armored man flying next to them doesn’t stagger, but Clint thinks his flight path wavers just a bit. “You’re toeing a line you don’t want to cross, Barton. I’ll escort you in and keep an eye on your passenger.”

He can’t argue that, not without risking more direct intervention. “Copy that, Rhodes. Keep to our nine, I’ll hold this corridor until ATC gives me another one. Gonna use open channel one-seven-four.”

It works, the rest of the short flight silent save for the air traffic control chatter as they approach the city. Clint flies in low, lands at the tower and powers down. He freezes as he’s getting out, staring at the figure in the back seat, the messy mop of blond hair. “Have you been here the whole time, Pietro?”

“I ran on just before you took off.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“There were only two headsets.”

Clint shakes his head, sighing. “Okay, point for you, I didn’t see that coming.”

Pietro’s grin is easy, his arms stretching over his head as they walk inside. “Seventy-six to seventy-five.” He darts ahead, gone in a blink.

Brock frowns at the space where Pietro just was. “Enhanced?”

“Yeah. Something something Loki’s scepter, something something Hydra, something something he’s an Avenger now. Pietro Maximoff, also known as Quicksilver.” Clint grins. “If you’re keeping track of our stupid super hero names.”

“Wish I wasn’t, they’re just getting stupider.” Brock rolls his eyes, unbuckling and taking his headset off. “So who’s my personal escort? You’ve already got a Falcon and a Hawkeye, is he… I dunno, Captain Eagle?”

With a laugh, Clint opens the door, nodding to Rhodey as he lands. “Colonel James Rhodes, better known as Rhodey, stupid superhero name War Machine. Rhodey, have you heard Brock’s dumb supervillain name?”

Rhodey’s not smiling when his faceplate raises. “Is this a joke to you, Clint? Pulling an international fugitive--who, by the way, the world doesn’t know the Avengers _have_ \--out of a secure facility and taking a joyride?”

“Man,” Tony’s voice saves him from having to answer, “when you say it like _that_ it sounds way worse than ‘my own bondmate won’t come see me without at least a felony.’ Maybe we should talk about that one, too.”

“Tony…” Whatever Rhodey’s about to start is cut short, his head tilting as he listens. “Yeah, Rogers, I have them. New York City, at Stark Tower.” He listens again, looking between Tony, Clint, and Brock. “No, stay there. I’ll keep an eye on them.” His faceplate drops again before he reaches up, taking his helmet off completely. “I’m only allowing this nonsense because I still love you, Tony. Let’s at least get inside.”

Clint reaches for Brock’s hand, squeezing it briefly. He steps closer, his voice low. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

The silence that answers him is both worrying and telling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is irrelevant to everything in the story, but along with trying to write another longfic and edit something I wrote back in February to be decent for posting (oooh, secret projects), I also elected to sign up for a virtual supermarathon and run 500km over the course of the summer.
> 
> As of posting this I'm at 39km, but I'm planning to get in at least 8km today.
> 
> aka, i am very tired all of the time.


	6. (Divide Me Down) To The Smallest I Can Be

He tries not to think about kisses that burn like whiskey as he sits on the couch. Even with the soundproofing that Stark’s penthouse undoubtedly has, they can all hear the argument going on between him and Rhodes in the other room.

Maximoff seems the most put off by it, rapid-fire pacing from one side of the room to the other. Barton’s stretched out across the couch, his feet in Rumlow’s lap, his eyes on the screen of his tablet. 

And there he sits, wanted fugitive, enemy to the Avengers, international terrorist and former Hydra agent. No cell, no handcuffs, nothing but the bare feet on his lap keeping him from getting up and leaving.

Oxy would take the bite off the headache. He really should have kept trying to horde the pills.

_“...don’t care if you… Tony that’s not even… Well what else am I supposed to…”_

_“...can’t even visit… really more important than us… I’m not hiring a_ service _for what my_ bondmates _should do…”_

Rumlow tilts his head back, closing his eyes. “You took your hearing aids out so you wouldn’t have to listen to them fight, didn’t you? You’re a real bastard, Barton.”

The foot that kicks his sternum at least gets a dry chuckle out of him, turning into a harsh cough.

“I turned them down,” Barton sets the tablet aside, looking across the room to the blur of pacing that is Maximoff. “She’ll be here soon enough. Try to sit down for at least a little while.”

Maximoff shoots them a look, disappearing from the room. Rumlow lets his focus drift, counting tiles on the ceiling and trying his best not to listen to the argument in the other room. Easier said than done, even getting only a few words at a time, he’s pretty sure Stark and Rhodes are yelling about their sex life.

“Here.” Barton shoves the tablet at him, sitting up completely and taking his feet away. 

Rumlow looks the screen over, frowning. “Sign language?”

“Yeah. Don’t even try to tell me it doesn’t hurt to talk. I’m gonna teach you how to sign so that you don’t have to talk if it hurts too much.” He folds his legs under him, hands lifting to eye level. He curves his right hand, miming drawing back and firing a bow with his left, an exaggerated release as his fingers flick. “See, that’s my name. Clint. _Archery_ plus _C._ You can pick something for your name, too.” He smiles a little, one hand lifting next to his mouth, fingers moving. “This usually means _bird_ , but I do it like this,” his fist closes down, thumb over his fingers, “and it’s _Sam_.”

Rumlow reads over the screen more closely, his head tilting to the side. “I’ll practice, I guess.”

“I’ll help. I seem to recall your ASL being absolutely terrible.”

“Eat ass, Barton, I only took the beginner course because it was mandated by H.R.” He gives the other man a light shove, setting the tablet aside. “Why are we here?”

“I told you--”

“No, I know. But… why? What the hell makes me worth _this_ much trouble? You know who I was working for. You know what I did for them, what I did afterwards. You can’t honestly believe that my life is worth saving.”

Barton crosses his arms, looking away. “I loved you. And even after that day… I knew you loved me. Even after I met Sam, even after we bonded… I still loved you. There was a part of me that couldn’t let go. Even if we don’t have what we were before, even if we never do, I can’t just throw away how happy I was when I was with you. How happy it still makes me, every day, to see Natey and be reminded of you.” He huffs, his gaze darting back to Rumlow. “And don’t fucking say you’re not worth it, Brock.”

His mouth snaps shut on the words, gaze drifting around the room. “We aren’t ever going to have what we had before.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“That’s it!” Rhodes’ voice raises sharply as the door opens, full of Alpha-like authority. “I’m calling Pep--”

Whoever he’s calling (Pepper Potts, Rumlow is sure) remains a mystery, his words cut off on two sides.

The elevator dings open, a young woman with dark auburn hair stepping in, juggling a baby in one arm and overnight bags in the other.

At the same moment, something in red and blue lands on the balcony and steps up to the doors, pulling off a mask and speaking as they open. “Mister Stark, I’m home--oh, you have friends over, um--shoot--I--”

Stark rubs the bridge of his nose, waving dismissively. “It’s fine, kid. They’re in on the whole caped crusades thing. Well, _some_ of them.”

Distantly, he’s aware of the argument starting between Stark and Rhodes again. Aware of the kid in superhero spandex joining in with hurried explanations. Even more distantly, he’s aware of the Maximoff boy taking bags out of the girl’s arms, must be his sister. His attention has zeroed in on one thing in the room and one thing only.

His son, a dozen steps away from him, sleeping peacefully in the Omega woman’s arms.

His throat scrapes dryly as he tries to swallow, his eyes locked on that little sleeping face. When he’d snuck into the farmhouse, it had been dark, he’d barely been able to make out features. And he’s grown so much since then… How much has he missed? How much happened while he was ruining his own life? Barton said he started walking, is he talking, too? Does he call Barton momma and Wilson daddy?

Most of the nerve endings in his face are either deadened to all sensation or constantly screaming with pain that he’s learned to ignore or smother under drugs. Rumlow isn’t even aware of the tears that fall from his eyes until Barton wipes them away.

“He’s your son, Brock. Go hold him.”

* * *

It’s the perfect life that he was never meant to have.

The twins, Wanda and Pietro, are in the kitchen, cooking something fragrant. Stark and the kid in the superhero costume--Parker, Peter Parker, also known as Spiderman even though he’s barely beyond being a boy--have absconded to the lab. Barton’s in the shower.

And here he is, lying on the couch, his son asleep against his chest. Rumlow rubs the baby’s back, his gaze drifting across the room to the windows, the view of New York.

It’d be idyllic if Rhodes wasn’t sitting in an armchair nearby, glaring at him.

“You know,” Rumlow murmurs, making brief eye contact with the Beta on the other side of the room, “I’m not actually going to spontaneously create a bomb if you look away for, like, two seconds.”

“Shut up.”

He’s not in handcuffs and leg irons and hell, Stark even managed to find him some percocet, leaving his pain level around a pleasant four and his give-a-shit level an easy one. He’d probably be asleep right now, if not for the constant feeling of someone glaring daggers at him.

Rumlow adjusts his position a bit, his arm wrapping securely around Nathaniel’s sleeping form. Nathaniel. Natey. His _son_. He’s still working that one through his brain.

“Rhodey,” Barton’s voice draws his attention, the Omega coming into the room with a damp towel over his shoulders. “Come on, man. He’s not going to go anywhere. Right, Brock?”

“Right.”

“The only reason I don’t have a gun pointed at him is because you’re using your own child as a human shield, Clint.” Rhodes crosses his arms, his glare finally shifting off of Rumlow for a moment. “Refusing to acknowledge the kind of trouble you’re in for this stunt won’t make it go away.”

“I moved a prisoner from one secure location to another. Hell, he’s even got the same guard. F.R.I.D.A.Y. was looking after him there and she is here, too.” Barton leans over the back of the couch, his hand coming down to rest on Rumlow’s. “Just give it a rest, okay? I promise we won’t go anywhere if you leave us alone for a few minutes.”

He’s pretty sure Rhodes isn’t going to bend. Next time he has to get up to take a piss, the man’s probably going to insist on standing outside the open bathroom door so he can’t carve a toothbrush into a shiv. So he’s genuinely surprised when Rhodes’ shoulders drop in defeat.

“If anything goes wrong, it’s on you. You can answer to Steve about it.” Rhodes pushes himself to stand, heading for the kitchen on the other side of the spacious penthouse.

“Finally,” Barton mumbles, climbing over the back of the couch and settling in close to him, careful not to jostle either Rumlow or the baby. “I like Rhodey just fine, but when Tony’s not able to chill him out, he’s so…” He gestures, vague and brief. “ _Military_.”

“Wow, what a horrible way to behave. You know I was in the Army for seven years, right? And then basically jumped into a paramilitary organization?” Rumlow laughs softly, reaching up and stroking a hand through Barton’s damp hair. Only Tony Stark would have a couch big enough for two people to comfortably lie beside each other. It’s practically a bed.

“That’s different. You know how to turn it off without me having to bat my eyelashes and pout my lips.” Barton’s face presses into the joint of his neck and shoulder, his eyes closed. “‘M sorry.”

The Alpha hums curiously, his hand trailing down the other man’s back, wrapping around his waist.

“I didn’t wait for you. I… I thought you were gone. Dead. But I didn’t wait. Sam and I, we… He made me feel safe. Loved. The things that I felt with you. And he cared about the baby. A lot of people, even people that knew you, hated you afterwards. Steve was convinced that… well. I’m sorry I didn’t wait.”

What could he say to that? _Sorry I was too fucked up to escape sooner? Sorry I got roped into Hydra before I ever met you? Sorry I fell in love with you instead of being the monster I was supposed to be?_ Rumlow closes his eyes, breathing slowly. “I wouldn’t change any of it. No matter how fucked up it is now, I wouldn’t go back and decide against falling in love with you. Wouldn’t want to be anything but yours, when I thought it was the end.” When he’d pleaded for it to be the end, when he’d begged the god he didn’t believe in to let the last thought in his head be Barton’s ‘I love you.’ “We’re a couple of fucked up, broken people, Clint.”

“Yeah.” Barton’s head tilts up, his mouth curving into a smile. “We are. But we managed to make something beautiful.” His gaze darts to the sleeping baby, his hand stroking Natey’s hair gently. “So we can’t be all bad.”

He’s not going to bother with the self-pity or self-loathing. Instead he shifts, carefully moves to hold Natey with one arm and Barton with the other. His baby and his Omega. For now, he can pretend like it’s all right.

* * *

The sound of a baby fussing pulls him from the heavy sleep of narcotics. Rumlow opens one eye, glancing at Barton sound asleep next to him on the couch. He shifts carefully, sitting up and lifting Natey, one hand going instinctively to the back of the kid’s pants. He’s never changed a diaper in his life and from the feel of it, his first experience is going to be… a lot.

“Come on, big boy,” Rumlow whispers, holding the whining baby against himself and going to hunt for the diaper bag. He’s field-dressed gunshot wounds, he can change a fucking diaper.

Or so he tells himself, right up until he manages to get the kid’s diaper open. “Oh my god, what do they _feed_ you?”

“I hope this isn’t his first memory,” a voice speaks up from the doorway and he glances up to Maximoff, giving her a frown. She steps into the room, kneeling down and helping guide his hands through the process of cleaning up the mess and putting on a fresh diaper.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, lifting Natey up, watching as his bright brown eyes track over the new room. The kid squirms and Rumlow sets him down again, something warming inside him as the kid crawls to the brightly colored backpack on the floor and knocks it over.

That’s his son. It keeps hitting him in little ways.

“You…” Maximoff bites her lip, glancing at him and looking away. “You were there, in Lagos.”

“Yeah. I was the guy that punched Captain America in the kidney.” His ‘I’m not a bad guy, really’ story isn’t going to hold up with the pride he still feels at getting in a cheap shot on Rogers.

“Your men tried to blow themselves up. One of them succeeded.” Well, that kills the swell of pride. He’s been imprisoned, not living under a rock.

“Our buyer had specific orders. Get the bioweapon or kill as many people as possible in the attempt. Triple payout to whoever could make it back alive with the prize, so I told my team to suit up with bomb vests and figured I’d go back on my own with it. Not everyone is Tony Stark, some of us have to buy our painkillers on the black market.” Rumlow shrugs, moving over and opening the backpack as Natey fusses with it. A spill of toys falls out and the baby starts slowly but determinedly sorting through them. He snags up a stuffed octopus, shoving one of its felted tentacles into his mouth and chewing on it.

Maximoff is still frowning at him. “The world hates me for what happened. _I_ hate me for what happened. Throwing you into prison won’t change that, no matter what the Captain thinks.”

“There’s lots of other reasons I should be in prison. Plenty of reasons I should be dead, too. Can’t think of a single reason I should get to sit here as a somewhat free man, watching my son and talking to one of the many, many people I have directly and indirectly fucked over like a civilized human being.” He tilts his head back until it bumps the edge of the bed, looking up at the ceiling. “And yet here I am.”

“This would be easier if you were a monster.”

Rumlow glances at her, his brow raising slightly. “Monsters don’t exist, kid. Just men who make terrible choices for selfish reasons.” His gaze slides back to Natey, sitting down and hugging his octopus in one hand, moving a toy car across the rug with the other. 

They’re going to have to sort this out. Send him to prison. Something. He’s one of those men who make terrible choices for selfish reasons, but he doesn’t want Natey to have to grow up knowing that.


	7. Keep You (Like An Oath)

He closes himself in one of the suites of the tower, holding his phone and sighing. This isn’t going to be the hardest call he’s ever made, but it’s far from the easiest. Clint glances at the text message field, typing quickly and hitting send before he can talk himself out of it.

_Get somewhere private and call me. Please._

Sam’s given him these hours without interference, he owes his bondmate at minimum an explanation. Owes him a hell of a lot more than that and the thought of trying to explain it curls something rotten in his gut.

So much of it isn’t straightforward in his own head, how is he supposed to explain it with words?

Five agonizing minutes later, his phone lights up with Sam’s name, with his picture, buzzes and plays the little tune of his ringtone. Clint taps the button to answer, putting the phone to his ear and exhaling slowly. “Hey, Sam.”

“Clint…” He can hear the sigh, the prelude to a thousand questions, on the other end of the line. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I…” He swallows, forces down the emotion that chokes him. He’s known for so long that Sam is too good for him. “Everything’s fine. Wanda and Pietro are here with me. So’s Natey. Tony’s got F.R.I.D.A.Y. monitoring Brock, he’s not going to be able to leave the penthouse. And Rhodey’s here, too. And, uh, the kid that Tony apparently adopted. DId you know about that?”

“Tony adopted a kid?” Sam laughs a little and Clint has to lean on the wall to keep from collapsing with the way his knees go weak. Laughter is good. Laughter means Sam isn’t consumed with anger at him. “Talk to me, tell me what’s going on with this.”

“I just… Steve’s being unreasonable. Worse than… than when he found out I was pregnant. It’s like he wants to take away even the memories of being happy with Brock because he feels so personally betrayed by it. And yeah, I know, it’s a false equivalence to compare Bucky and Brock, but…” Clint shakes his head, groaning. “I don’t know how to explain it. Fuck.”

Sam hums, his words coming slowly. “You want to protect him because you want to believe that he’s the person you fell in love with. To prove to the rest of the world that he isn’t the monster everyone’s going to say he is. It’s reasonable, you invested a lot of emotional energy into that relationship and since it ended you’ve had to fight to keep it in a positive light. So to have someone say that what you felt, what you still feel, is wrong… Yeah, that’s pretty fuckin’ rough.”

“What’d I do to deserve you and your big smart brain?” He laughs a little, the sound echoed across the line.

“It’s your big sad puppy eyes, Clint. I can’t resist. Listen, no one’s really… happy with what’s going on, but I can try to talk to Steve about being less angry. Using Rumlow as a scapegoat doesn’t take the heat off Wanda forever. We need to turn him in for the crimes he’s actually committed, not say that everything was his fault end of story.” Sam’s voice lowers in a sigh. “General Ross has been on the phone with Steve for the better part of the morning. The United Nations Security Council is drafting regulations for enhanced individuals and those with access to exclusive technology. Sounds like the Avengers are about to become a government sponsored program.”

Clint exhales heavily. “I’ve seen the writing on the wall since New York, if we’re being honest. S.H.I.E.L.D. kept some of us in line, but without S.H.I.E.L.D… Yeah, someone has to be there to point the gun. Good thing I’m mostly retired, huh?”

“Living that quiet life of a former superhero. If this goes through, I’ll probably hang up my wings and go home with you.” Sam pauses, and Clint holds his breath. “Assuming we’re still…”

“It takes a lot more than an international fugitive I used to date to make us stop being us, Sam. I love you, no matter what.” The bond scar on his neck throbs, a pleasant pulse of warmth for the man on the other end of the phone call. “When the dust settles, we’ll go home together and be sickeningly domestic. Hell, maybe we’ll have another kid or two or twelve.”

Sam laughs, soft and warm. “House isn’t big enough for twelve kids. One more sounds good, though. I love you, Clint. Nothin’ changes that.” There’s a sound on the other end, something like muffled conversation. “Ah, better go. Tell the others I said hi. We’ll be in touch about these government regulations, I’m sure.”

The call disconnects and Clint rubs the back of his neck, holding his phone down by his side. Some of his spinning thoughts are cleared up, like he knew they would be after a call with Sam. Others are even more jumbled up and confused.

* * *

Watching Brock with Natey is something to see. Clint settles back on the couch, one eye on his son, currently climbing all over the Alpha with his octopus in one hand and a toy car in the other. Apparently Brock Rumlow makes a great race track. He hides his grin behind the tablet, forcing himself to skim the files Sam has sent over, the beginnings of the enhanced individual regulations. The writing really has been on the wall since New York, the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn’t helped, and the Avengers’ interference in Sokovia and Lagos prompting attacks and civilian casualties… Clint sighs, scrolling through the files half-heartedly.

Another message pings in, an alert from Sam. He taps it open, nearly drops the tablet. “Son of a _fuck_.”

Brock looks up, gently moving the octopus off his face. “What’s up?”

“They want to send you to The Raft.”

He shrugs, settling Natey’s octopus on the ground and sitting up. “Isn’t that place usually just for enhanced criminals?”

“Yeah. Makes Max Security look like a playground.” Clint shakes his head, turning the tablet to Brock. “The proposal is life or five years, whichever comes first.”

“Jesus.” Brock huffs a laugh, scooping up Natey and kissing his forehead. “Can’t say I don’t deserve it, but that sounds fucking awful.”

“You don’t deserve _that_ , Brock. It’s not prison, it’s torture.”

“Sounds like what the world’s oldest prisoner of war had to go through. I helped with that, you know. I’ve done enough vile shit in my life that I deserve to have some of that turned back on me.” He settles Natey on his lap, brushing his fingers through the baby’s hair gently. “I deserve that a lot more than I deserve this, sitting here with my son and acting like the world is fine.”

Clint groans, flopping back on the couch. “Just because you’re right doesn’t mean I wanna hear it.” He skims the rest of the file, hissing in a breath. “Oh, great, and they want me under house arrest for aiding and abetting your escape from the Avengers. Ankle monitor and only able to leave my property if accompanied by an approved escort.”

“At least you have a lot of property. How is the farm, anyways?” Brock lets Natey go as he squirms, handing him the octopus. “Did you end up retiling the downstairs bathroom?”

“Twice. I didn’t like the blue so I did black and white but it was too stark so now it’s grey and cream.” He smiles, rolling onto his side and watching Natey crawl across the floor. “You should have come to visit during the day, I would have given you the tour.”

“I…” Brock shrugs, looking away. “I wasn’t sure if you… would want me. I just… had to see how you were doing. At least once.” He rolls one of the toy cars to Natey, his eyes on the trek across the thin carpet. “It’d be easier if you could say I never mattered.”

Clint groans softly. “Yeah, well, too late. I went and fell for your dumb ass. Human disaster Clint Barton strikes again.”

“Takes two to tango, Barton.” Brock gives him a crooked grin, getting up gingerly and wiping his hands on his pants. “How long do I have as a semi-free man? Does it say?”

It doesn’t. The Avengers could come rolling up in an hour or a day or a week, Clint has no idea. He puts the tablet aside, sitting up and patting the spot next to him. “You’d think I’d be used to things turning out as far from okay as you can get, but…” He shrugs, dropping his head to Brock’s shoulder as the Alpha sits down. “Do you want anything before they show up?”

“Nah. This… this is good. Havin’ a little piece of what could have been to think about when I’m locked up with the world’s worst psychopaths.” His arm wraps around Clint’s shoulders, lips pressing to his forehead. “Do somethin’ for me?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t let him grow up knowing how shitty I am. I’d rather he thinks I’m dead than the piece of shit I actually am.”

Clint squeezes his eyes shut for a second, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I can do that, Brock. Of course.” He shouldn’t say it. He shouldn’t _feel_ it. He shouldn’t… “I love you. Always.”

Brock hums softly, pulling him a little closer. “I love you, too. No matter what.”

* * *

It’s not much of a show, when the Avengers arrive to formally arrest Brock Rumlow. Clint stays back with Natey, watching as Steve and Sam lead him out. He catches his bondmate’s eye, nodding slightly. He’ll face his own punishment soon. He deserves that much.

Tony’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing gently as the elevator doors close. He doesn’t say anything, just rests himself against Clint and sighs.

It all started with a door being opened for Brock to reach Clint, and it all ends with a door closing between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday (6/3) marked the one year anniversary of when I started writing this series, according to GDrive. We've come so far in a year, I've written the longest thing in my entire life (by a significant margin), I managed to watch Endgame for a second time (uh, last Friday lol) and I've reached the "acceptance" stage of my thirst for Brock Rumlow (problematic fave for life, yo).
> 
> How fitting, that it took a year to reach this point. But there's still more story to tell. New chapter next week, as usual.


	8. (May Death) Find You Alive

Life or five years. It’s pretty obvious which one they expect to come first, with phrasing like that. And he’ll be honest with himself, he’s not in the same condition to survive prison as he used to be. The burns still hurt like a bitch, the guards won’t give him anything stronger than naproxen, and despite everything he’s done, he’s just a guy. No enhancements. Not quite crazy enough to scare people off.

Rumlow won’t dispute that he deserves it, but he doesn’t have to like it.

Time doesn’t mean much on The Raft. Every day is the same routine, every night is the same blank ceiling to stare at. He’s spent some time behind bars, mostly in overnight holding cells in those rambling months between the Army and S.H.I.E.L.D. He’d gotten all of that out of his system by the time Hydra took notice of him.

This isn’t a drunk tank, or a holding cell. There aren’t hookers or meth heads or homeless people here. Hardened criminals, the worst on the planet, and he belongs among them.

A couple of them recognize him, catcall as he’s walked to his cell on day one. It takes barely a glance for him to decide that being recognized is a terrible thing. The guards laugh, give him a shove forward and let the glass and bars come down behind him. Rumlow drops onto his cot, glancing around the cell and assessing. Smaller than in the Avengers compound. No half-wall to block the view of the toilet. He’s willing to bet the food won’t be as good, either.

Lying back on the cot, staring up at the ceiling, he settles in to wait for death. Or five years.

Whichever comes first.

* * *

At night he dreams of Barton, of the rambling old farmhouse, of endless summer with kids playing in the yard. Natey teaching a little brother or sister some obscure kid’s game. Barton with garden dirt under his fingernails washing fresh produce in the sink. Taking the training wheels off a bike and teaching his son how to ride it. In his dreams, he has the life he let slip through his fingers. In his dreams, he and Barton are bonded and still in love even as they get old and their kids grow up and a new group arrives to save the world.

He watches the hair around his temples come in grayer and grayer, seemingly every time he looks in the mirror. The burns on his face seem to fold in on themselves, wrinkle with age. Definitely frown lines, definitely not laugh lines. Rumlow tries to count the days, weeks, months that he’s been here and comes up blank.

Has it been a year yet? How much longer does he have to try to survive this?

Two prisoners break out and try to start a riot. He sits on the cot in his opened cell, his hands visible at his sides. One of the guards still shoots a high powered tranquilizer into his stomach before resealing his cell. When he wakes up, the rioters are gone. Life for them, then.

There are no tiers of dangerous on The Raft. True equality, everyone getting the same level of shitty treatment. Even among the prisoners, there isn’t much of a hierarchy. Isn’t much reason for one, when they don’t typically allow more than one person out of a cell at a time.

Is Barton still under house arrest? Is Wilson with him, or off being an Avenger? Has Natey started school yet?

He tries to picture his son growing up and takes too long to realize that he’s crying.

* * *

“Rumlow.”

He opens an eye, sitting up on the cot and staring. One hand slowly scrubs against his face. “Hallucinating without drugs, that’s a new one.” Come to think of it, why did his scrambled brain cook up Rogers with a beard? Weird.

“You’re not hallucinating,” definitely-not-Captain-America informs him, his tone serious. “We need something from you.”

The cell door slides open and Rumlow tenses, planting his hands on the bed on either side of him. Those tranqs hurt when they go in. It doesn’t matter how passive he makes himself look, they’re going to shoot him up with one for attempting to escape.

“I wouldn’t be asking if there was anyone else, Rumlow.” And not-Rogers tosses him something, something he catches on instinct even though he isn’t supposed to have possessions anymore. They even make him give back the roll of toilet paper when he’s done with it. Rumlow turns the bundle in his hands, frowning.

He looks up again, eyes tracking past the hallucination, around the room. Guards standing by, looking nervous but not advancing on his open cell. Their tranq guns are pointed at the ground. Other prisoners are yelling, banging on their own cells, a low cacophony that doesn’t ever really change.

“Rumlow,” the hallucination he’s having says again, “get up.”

Numb, he gets to his feet, shuffles out of the cell and follows. This is a new type of dream. New things are rare. He’ll go with it. “I bet they drugged my food.”

“Put your shoes on, don’t just carry them.”

Rumlow does as told, struggles with shoelaces while imaginary-Rogers talks to someone at the guard station. He stands unsteadily on his feet, swaying a little, watching the two men’s mouths move. They must be saying things, but those things are lost on him, unimportant under the dull rush of air in his ears.

He follows again when he’s led away, onto a quinjet, off of The Raft. Rumlow sits back in the jump seat, his head resting on the wall as someone flies them away. “I’d rather go back to dreaming about the farm.”

“This ain’t a dream, old man.” That voice he knows, and it makes him tense up. He opens his eyes slowly, looking to Wilson. “Look alive, you’re gonna help us save the universe.”

“We’re going to Wakanda. Bucky’s waiting for us there. The Maximoffs and Vision are meeting us. Hopefully they’ll be able to stabilize you in time to fight. If it comes to that. Suit up, Rumlow, it’s time to prove to me that people really can change.” Rogers is watching him and Rumlow blinks a few times, the reality of this slotting into place, the world tipping left before centering again.

Instinctually, his eyes go to the cockpit, but that’s not Barton, it’s Romanoff. “Where--” He swallows, licks his lips, and forces down the first question. Barton isn’t his bondmate, he doesn’t get to ask that. “Wakanda. What the hell are they gonna do?”

“Most defensible country in the world. Also most advanced tech. They’re going to take the Mind Stone out of Vision so that some ugly ass purple alien can’t get it and use it to destroy the universe.” Wilson shrugs at his incredulous look. “Hey man, I don’t understand much of it either, but when the world needs us, we show up.”

“So why am I here?”

Rogers takes that one, his gaze serious. He looks tired. “You’re good at strategy, you’re good under pressure, and you’re not afraid to fight dirty. We’re going to need everything we can get.” He cocks his head towards the other side of the jet. “There’s equipment in there for you. Now suit up.”

When Rumlow rejoins them, wearing a rough copy of his old S.T.R.I.K.E. tactical gear with slightly more armor, Rogers is turning a package in his hands. His eyes settle on the other Alpha, steady and serious.

“I need to know that you’re on our side for this fight, Rumlow. That the past is staying in the past. I’m willing to drop it, to… to move on if you are.”

He thinks about it, his face pulling into a frown. Are they gonna shove him out of the quinjet if he refuses? Probably not. They’ll probably just turn around and dump him back on The Raft. “You dropped a building on my face, Rogers. And you,” his gaze whips to Wilson, meeting the Beta’s dark eyes. “You took away my family, made them yours. I oughta hate you both more than anyone else in the universe, want you both dead. But…” He sighs, looking back to Rogers and scratching the back of his neck lightly. “I’m sick of throwing my life away for fights that aren’t even worth winning. If you really want me savin’ the world…” Rumlow nods slowly, his eyes steady on the other man. “Count me in, Cap.”

Silently, Rogers hands over the package. He opens it cautiously, face twisting into a grin.

Comic book or not, he fucking loves those gauntlets.

* * *

Walking out of the quinjet into a foreign country, alongside the world’s heroes, feels like… nothing. There’s an air of tension in everyone, but it isn’t directed at him. Rumlow falls into step with Romanoff, just behind Rogers and Wilson, pitching his voice low.

“Romanoff. How… how is he?”

She darts a corner-of-the-eye look to him, her shoulders bumping, disturbing the perfect a-line of her hair. She’d bleached it. “He’s good. Happy. Maybe the happiest he’s been since--”

Her words cut off and Rumlow turns his attention forward again, swallowing. The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, looking happier and healthier and more _human_ than Rumlow has ever seen. He and Rogers embrace shortly, patting each other on the back.

“Only takes an intergalactic threat for you to come see your bondmate, huh, Steve?” Barnes laughs, looking quickly to the sky.

“I told you I…” Rogers shifts his weight, his voice lowering. “Sorry, Buck.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” His eyes flicker across the group, landing on each of them briefly. That look is all Winter Soldier, the cold calculation that he remembers the Asset having during assignments. “You sure we need him?”

“I’d rather stack the deck in our favor. Especially since Tony’s not here.”

That catches Rumlow’s interest, but before he can ask--is Stark under house arrest, too?--they’re being led further inside. He sticks near the back, near Romanoff and Wilson, as their group joins a few others. The Maximoffs, a young girl he doesn’t know working on something he isn’t even going to try to understand over a red form on an exam table. Banner, who he hasn’t seen since… Rumlow tries to count backwards and comes up short without knowing how long he’s been in prison. Three guards in intricate armor and an Alpha in front of them, wearing some type of skin-tight heroic get up.

Everyone bows their heads in deference and he follows suit before Romanoff can elbow him into it. After a moment Rogers steps forward, shaking hands quickly. “Your Highness.”

“So many outsiders… You’re certain of them?” The Alpha speaks with measured words and, like Barnes, his eyes assess each of them.

Rogers nods shortly. “The best team I could put together on short notice. You know Bucky, Nat, and Sam. The Maximoff twins, Wanda and Pietro. They’re both enhanced. Vision, a…” Rogers shrugs. “Complicated but trustworthy ally. Rumlow… Well…”

“I think he just brought me here because I didn’t die fast enough in prison,” Rumlow offers, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a helpless smirk. “But I’ll help how I can. What are we working with?”

He’s more than impressed with Wakanda’s defenses, with T’Challa, their king, and his easy leadership. Up until now he’d say that no one could take over a room when Rogers was in full leadership Alpha mode, but even he defers to the other man. Home turf advantage isn’t all of it. He’s glad he didn’t take that job to steal vibranium from the country.

“Look alive, we’ve got incoming!” Barnes calls from the doorway. They move outside, watching as something comes crashing through the atmosphere. Rumlow stops beside Wilson, double-checking his gauntlets. He’d only used them once or twice before getting captured, but they’re not complicated. Even simpler is the small arsenal he’s carrying, two handguns at his belt, a boot knife, and a rifle over his shoulder. He’s no Winter Soldier, but he’s familiar enough with a range of firearms to use those just fine. He doesn’t have time to adjust.

Whatever is crashing down hits a barrier a few hundred feet overhead, a wave of purple energy spreading out from it, a fireball. Barnes exhales a little laugh. “I love this place.”

“They won’t be stopped by that forever. We need to round them up, keep the fighting away from the city,” Rogers says, stepping forward next to T’Challa. “Are you ready for this?”

“We have to be, Captain.”

Rumlow’s gaze moves out past their little group, to the gathered forces of Wakanda. An army, ready to fight to the last man to defend the world. The universe. And he’s among them.

Well, it _is_ better than prison.


	9. When All That's Left Is Dust

Despite everything, there are things in Brock Rumlow’s life that he looks back on with pride.

His military rank. The loyalty he inspired in the men working with him. His time on the two-mile when he was seventeen. The look on Romanoff’s face when he’d actually pinned her during a training session. The shine in Barton’s eyes when he’d called himself the Omega’s Alpha.

Seeing his son sleeping peacefully in a crib, living proof that he hadn’t led the world to ruin.

He adds punching a megalomaniac alien in the spine to that list.

Things hadn’t been going well, the enemy numbers too many, their forces starting to get overwhelmed. He’d gone down with one on top of him and Barnes had shot it before the metal arm had hauled him up. “On your feet, Commander,” he’d snapped, face Winter Soldier serious before breaking into a grin. “No lying down on the job when you’re working with Steve.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Rumlow had kept fighting, kept shooting. He’d run out of ammo for his rifle and just dropped it, pulled out one pistol and then the other as the fight dragged on. They’d been getting overwhelmed, Rogers down, Banner in his giant suit down, Barnes falling back a step when Thor had arrived. 

He wasn’t an Avenger, but he’d practically heard the swelling music of a battle whose tide was turning when the Asgardian charged onto the field. Rumlow had allowed himself a brief grin, slipping his palms into the gauntlets and diving back into it.

And when the man himself showed up, when the great threat took his place on the battlefield, he’d known what to do. The weird aliens were being held back by Wakanda’s troops, but priority one was protecting Vision and their Mind Stone. Rumlow had fallen back with the others, fought his way towards the city where Vision and Wanda Maximoff still were. Rogers needed them.

He hadn’t really been ready to take on a crazy alien solo, but if that was what it took…

Rumlow moves up behind him fast, drawing his fist back and aiming, letting the hydraulic power amplify his hit, letting the blade hidden away in there pop out as it connects.

He’s aware that it snaps rather than piercing purple skin just a moment before something, some force, grabs him and throws him aside. He hits a tree with a sickening _crunch_ of something in his tattered body breaking further and lets out a low groan. The searing pain from his broken arm goes numb frighteningly fast. 

“Son of a…”

Someone hits the ground near him and he looks up in time to see Wilson roll over with a groan. He holds his ribs, head tilting back to meet Rumlow’s gaze. “We can’t stop him.”

“We gotta.” With effort, he hauls himself to his feet, lets his gauntlet drop from his broken arm. At least it’s his left, at least his dominant hand is still up--though the knife in that gauntlet is gone, broken, destroyed. “C’mon, it ain’t over yet.” He hauls Wilson up, clapping him briefly on the shoulder. “You wanna get home to your family, right?”

They should hate each other. For more reasons than Rumlow cares to count, they should despise each other. But Wilson just gives him a grin, pulling out a pistol and a fresh clip, handing it over before loading his own. “Yeah, man. Let’s do this. Bet I can outrun you now.”

“Bet you can’t.”

They take off, follow the sounds of a fight through the trees.

They don’t make it in time.

Things go still and quiet as Vision falls, as Thanos seats the last infinity stone into his gauntlet. Rogers is on the ground, struggling upward. Maximoff is there, her brother nearby, both of them staring wide-eyed at what remains of Vision. Rumlow can see a few of the others dotting the outskirts, battered and bloodied. Moving carefully, Barnes drags himself closer to Rogers.

And then there’s Thor again, like a beacon of hope from above, his hammer (axe now, Rumlow supposes) driving into Thanos’ chest. 

He has just enough time to hope before Thanos snaps his fingers.

There’s no rhyme or reason to it. 

They see Barnes stagger forward and Rumlow takes a step, maybe to help, maybe to hold him back. “Steve?” the Omega asks, voice low, confused. A moment later, he’s gone, just ash in the breeze.

“Bucky…”

Something touches his shoulder and Rumlow glances back, his eyes widening. At his side, Wilson squeezes his eyes shut and fades away.

There must be others going. He can hear screaming, people yelling names around them.

Pain sears through his chest, worse than burning alive, worse than anything he’s ever felt before.

 _Nathaniel_.

He makes it another step before he’d ash on the breeze, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's come along on this wild ride with me. Unfortunately, this is where the train stopped on my inspiration, but I have goals to one day get back to finishing the rest of this series. Hell, the Endgame fic even has a title already (it's "Former Heroes (Who Quit Too Late)" if that tells you anything about it). The worst part of it is that a LOT of the rest of the story is plotted out in my head, it's just getting the brain-words into screen-words that keeps tripping me up.
> 
> Currently I'm editing the next multi-chapter fic that will be posted and writing another one. We're swinging into some wildly different territory with my next MCU updates, it looks like. If you're here for my writing, maybe subscribe so you know when I post something new. If you are/were only here for the Clint/Brock A/B/O, maybe still subscribe because I love intangible ego-boosts.
> 
> Love you all very much, and hope I see you in the next story. <3 <3 <3


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